OUTDOORS

OUTDOORS; Fishing in Brooklyn: The Lore and the Lure

By Peter Kaminsky

Published: October 30, 1994

Brooklyn's Marine Park is rarely mistaken for Vietnam or Siberia. However, last year, a wayward spotted red shank, which is a long-legged shore bird customarily an inhabitant of both those places, ended up spending the season here just across from Rainbow Lanes at the corner of Knapp Street and Avenue X. The homeless bird thrived on the marine life in the shallows of Gerritsen Creek, a long salt marsh that extends from Jamaica Bay back up to the ball fields of Marine Park where, every weekend, West Indian cricket teams, in sparkling white uniforms, bowl and bat on the green lawns. There are flounder in the creek and stripers and blues which chase baitfish right up to the shoreline.

Dave Azar, a dentist who has set himself the task of learning the fly fishing opportunities of the Brooklyn shore of Jamaica Bay, catches blues and stripers in the creek among the old pilings that dot the inlet. When he took me there one recent morning at 7 A.M., blues were working the middle of the channel, penning up bunker and slashing through them. But they were too far out to reach with a flyrod. We tried small streamers in the pilings for stripers and had a few tentative takes but no hook-ups.

Earlier that morning near Floyd Bennett Field, we walked on a path through the shore grass to Dead Horse Bay, so named because of the glue factories where some of the more vexing also-rans from the nearby Steeplechase Racetrack no doubt ended their days in the early part of the century. Wages for the largely immigrant work force at the factories were rather high because of the overpowering odor. Birds working over the sandbar were a good sign of baitfish, but a half hour of casting yielded nothing.

We retreated to a Flatbush Avenue deli for coffee and bagels and, looking somewhat out of place in waders and fishing gear at 6 A.M., pondered our next move.

"The fish are there, but not catchable," Dave said. "Why don't we run out to Breezy Point and check it out."

We agreed and headed over the bridge to the Rockaways. There were no reports of anything happening, but in New York, if you are a shore fisherman, when all else fails, you head for Breezy for the same reason that you hit a malfunctioning TV when other measures fail: It often produces results.

The wind was from the southwest and the tide was rising. Low-wheeling bands of gulls occasionally dipped to the water and, beneath them, we saw telltale white slashes. My heart swelled as we saw leaping albacore. The albacore (as they are called in the East; more properly, they are the false albacore, not the tuna variety) is perhaps the most exciting game fish for the surf angler. He is big, fast, strong and dogged. You must be prepared at all times for your quarry to make a lightning-fast appearance and, when he does, you must guess his direction and then respond quickly and accurately if you hope to intercept his path.

At the end of the jetty, we saw a number of fly casters fighting fish. Even though I didn't have my cleats I began to clamber over the rocks and took a shoulder-crunching fall. As the waves washed over me, I held onto the rock with my right arm. I was soaked, cold, and less enthusiastic about jetty hopping. I righted myself and began to cast, hoping that the fish would come within range. They didn't.

Meanwhile, at the other end of the jetty (don't try getting there if you are not in good shape and you don't have cleats), Peter Chan, a devout Breezyphile who works at Urban Angler in Manhattan, was into fish after fish. At first I enjoyed watching someone succeed, but as my shoulder began to throb I began to feel first depressed and then somewhat unfraternal about the success of my fellow angler.

I went home, popped a number of aspirins and went to sleep. The next morning, my shoulder hurt a lot. I took a few more aspirins and headed back for Breezy. Tom Colicchio, the chef of Gramercy Tavern and a flyfisherman, drove me to the point. When we arrived, the wind was blowing at 20-25 knots. There were albacore everywhere and, there in mid-jetty, Peter Chan had returned. This time I had my cleats.

Taking Chan as our talisman, we moved alongside and began to cast. The fish came close but not close enough. Still, there is a difference between not catching fish when there are no fish around and not catching fish when they are there to see and hear. We were excited and happy to be out on a beautiful fall afternoon.

I gave things a rest on Tuesday, but by Wednesday afternoon I had severe albacore lust. I tried to work. I couldn't. I hit Breezy at the beginning of the outgoing tide. There was one other angler out at the tip of the jetty, a Russian flounder fisherman. I cast for two hours. At six o'clock, a line of boats, all flounder fishermen, had taken up position at a right angle to the jetty, extending back toward the Verrazano Bridge.

I cast a small, chartreuse streamer straight into the sun and began to strip when an albacore hit with extraordinary force. I raised my rod and struck hard. The albacore took off with a blazing run like a bonefish. My line disappeared and I was well into the backing before I began to recover line. Then the fish ran again. Then I stopped him again, but each time he took more line.

He was making for the rip that ran on the far side of the anchored boats. If I didn't stop the fish, he would no doubt have created an unhappy mess among the fishing lines and anchor ropes of the flounder fishermen. I palmed my drag and bore down. My jettymate reeled in a flounder. He put down his rod and watched me.

"Is big blue?" he asked in a heavy accent.

"Albacore," I answered.

My line described a wide, hundred-yard arc. There was a lot of drag on the fish, in fact too much. My rod tip sprung back.

"Is gone?" the Russian asked.

"Is gone," I assented.

I never felt better after losing a fish.

Photos: Sharing a pre-dawn bagel in Brooklyn before a day of flyfishing for stripers and blues in Gerritsen Creek, a long salt marsh that extends from Jamaica Bay to Marine Park. (Photographs by Keith Meyers/The New York Times) Map: Geristen Creek (The New York Times)